The truth is there’s nothing so beautiful today as the rain falling like a song on simmering stacks of leaves, which tomorrow will rustle under my feet and float around, lifeless; nothing so beautiful as a roiling October sky, no wishes, no tomorrow, just this moment and the sugar maples flaming at the roadside as I pass, too fast. They burn so beautiful for such a short time.
The truth is, I wanted to stop that moment. Freeze-frame. Snap.
The truth is that I wish I could be more honest on this blog, more raw. I see beauty in raw things. I want to look at things even if they scare me. Or especially if they do.
The truth is that I have a “disability” that people can’t see, but when people know about it, then I have to work twice as hard to prove what I am, to prove what I can be. And sometimes it doesn’t work, anyway–the proving, I mean.
The truth is, I’m constantly balancing between the fear of saying too much and the fear of not being heard.
The truth is, I lean back against trees and gather strength that way.
The truth is, I’m a modern-day mystic.
The truth is, I read Tarot cards not by memorizing but by looking at the story that the pictures make. And they make a different picture every time, and I don’t believe that it’s an oracle as much as a set of situations and questions, to which you apply intuition.
The truth is when I lay the cards out I think about chaos theory, the fact that if I’d shuffled differently, different cards would appear each time, but that it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s all in what you make of the symbols and stories.
Symbols and stories, language condensed. I’m free-writing and I’m stuck somewhere between poetry and prose.
The truth is that I’m actually very shy, even though I fake a good friendly. If I’m not pretending polite-nice-to-meet-you-graciousness, I’m self-enclosed, and then people think I’m snobbish. Not everyone, just some people. And I try not to care.
The truth is I think love hurts. I mean sometimes I love people so much that it hurts. A physical hurt, a butterfly stomach, a racing heart. A lump in the throat. An ache.
The truth is I push people away without meaning or wanting to.
The truth is that I want to be more than what I am, whether or not that makes sense. I mean I want to be a better person. I read a lot of books that are supposed to make me better, work to cultivate self-acceptance. Cultivation is a funny thing. You have to care for a garden of things that nourish you, even if it’s hard as hell. Especially if it’s hard as hell.
Every book asks me to define my true values, but first I need to figure out how to get through the day. The day is endless, sometimes. Sometimes I write until five in the morning. The quiet time is beautiful. Sacred, a gem. The dark is so lovely, better than silk sheets and the finest coffee.
The truth is that I sit closest to the door in every class and I leave first because I don’t want to fall into the trap of getting close to people. And I know how sad that sounds, but really I don’t mind being solitary. Days alone without answering the phone. Mixing essential oils, wondering if I could make signature scents for people and sell them online because …
The truth is I really have very little. I mean, enough to live on, and support from those around me. I get by, I eat, I get to enjoy nice things like movies and the occasional lunch at this little Greek restaurant I love (lettuce stained mildly maroon from the beets, perfect, all crisp and rich with feta). But I can’t do as much as some people can or else I screw up medically because of that disability I mentioned.
The truth is I feel all alienated at school because everyone else works full time, and I don’t, and if you can’t explain a disability then you have to accept looking lazy.
“Disability,” really it seems the wrong word. “Difficulty,” I like better, or “road block with detour.”
The truth is I eat a lot of noodles not just because they’re cheap and I’m the (truthfully) below-poverty-level kind of poor, but also because I just happen to love experimenting with spices, which I always have done ever since I was in India where the air everywhere is thick with unfamiliar spices; the scent of curry in the very walls of that flat in New Delhi where I slept sweating, where two girls and I swapped continually the bed by the fan, because no matter how dark and thick the night, we were all zapping with the 12-hour time difference, laughing & delirious with travel exhaustion.
The truth is sometimes I think I’d like to live in a little mountain town in northern India, Punjab maybe, and have fresh goat’s milk in the morning, and wake up to roosters like I did that long summer in Dharamsala, and learn to heckle over prices without seeming so American. Because sometimes going away just sounds so nice. Stepping outside of the ideas they have of who you are, yourself and others.
The truth is I couldn’t move to India now and 96 percent of the reason for that is because I couldn’t leave my dogs. These loyal creatures who stand beside us. Sometimes I think I love them more than people.
The truth is that I actually do care a whole hell of a lot what people think, but I do the best I can not to show it. I worry that I talk too much in class, but I can’t shut up anyway, and then I go home and worry all night about each aspect of each thing I said, because the truth is I’m really fucking neurotic.
Yep, I said it: the truth is, I’m neurotic and I eat chocolate when I’m nervous, and sometimes all the sadness is so crazy all at once that I can look down at it, like it’s all a movie or some mad God’s ultimate divine joke, and then I see the irony in it.
And things become funny, like seeing the same people in the same waiting room at the same doctor’s office for years on end; seeing them so often that you share diagnoses and discuss the merits of various treatments; seeing them so often that some of them drive you crazy, like this one man who pontificates on his life to the point where I close my eyes and daydream about a different life, in Paris or India or maybe somewhere else I’ve never been or seen.
I mean, I think it might be incredible to shake up a life the way Buddhist monks shake up a mandala they’ve built so forever tediously from colored sand.
The truth is I think a lot of us are the same on the inside, but we can’t admit it to each other. We walk around in our personal bubbles of space and separate auras and then when we get home we burn with the personal, underneath sinew, deep inside; we feed it with cupcakes or wine, or else we exercise, or make art or music or poetry or whatever we find most beautiful.
The truth is I want to make something beautiful every day because it’s the best way there is to cope with all the truths inside that I haven’t told you, not even here, not even now.